Before, During, After, and Otherwise
by hrhowling
Summary: Just a collection of random SP oneshots. Includes AUs, 'deleted scenes' set during the books, and random drabbles that I start with an intention of including a deep meaning, but wind up just spewing nonsense onto the page. I take requests, too!
1. A Mask for These Corpses

**Hello! Yes, I've started another set of fanfics. This is just going to be small one-shots and stuff, set in my 'Who Said Life was Easy?'-verse and other AUs and drabbles. Merely a minor side project.**

 **And what better way to start a new one-shot series than with something depressing? This is an elaboration part of chapter 24 of 'Who Said Life was Easy?', but you don't have to read that before reading this.**

 **Anyway. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **A Mask for These Corpses**

The Dead Men all wore masks to protect themselves. It was just that hardly anyone ever saw the faces beneath them, so they just couldn't tell the difference.

* * *

Skulduggery's mask was elegant and puzzling to the point of infuriation. That elaborate, carefully constructed façade hid a young, impulsive vagabond that was haunted by the past; face scarred from years of hardship and pain; too scared to let the people he treasures out of sight lest they get hurt. And as delicate as it may have looked, it was tough enough to hide and restrain the frightening darkness that lurked beneath.

* * *

A tough, robust and confident display was what Erskine chose to live with. One that people could trust and confide in; that gave the image of power and wouldn't be easily opposed. But beneath that mask was a paranoid, sensitive soul who was dangerously fragile, and constantly gripped in the clutches of self-loathing for betraying the people who had so much faith in him for so long. There were times when his mask came dangerously close to breaking, but he always made sure to fix it, because he wasn't sure how long he'd last without it. He never took it off.

* * *

Dexter's sweet-talking masquerade got him into a fair bit of trouble on more than one occasion. Cocky and rambunctious, it was hard to believe that it was all an act to hide the fidgety colt who struggled to form lasting commitments with people. It was because of this that he was so thankful for the friends he had, even if he didn't show it.

* * *

Saracen was in a similar situation. His foxy, boyish attitude to life was the only way he felt he could get on in life. If people saw how vulnerable and dependent he really was, then he'd be a burden, and he didn't want that. He didn't want to drag everyone else down and cause trouble for them just to make things easier for himself.

* * *

The irate, solitary outer shell of Corrival Deuce was not an overly elaborate show, but it got the job done; it earned him respect, got people to listen to him, and – more importantly – kept him alive. So after over two hundred years of having to wear it, he simply forgotten to take it off. Forgotten it was even there. Forgotten that people couldn't see how he did actually care about what happened to his friends, people and country.

* * *

Anton's mask was the only one that was ever even slightly visible to strangers. The solitude and silence defended people from his blazing, barely-caged anger and obscured the full extent of his resentment towards the Sanctuary. And no one – not even the people he loved most – would ever know how much he cared for them.

* * *

Even Ghastly had a mask, however it was roughly hewn and only served to protect him. There was nothing complex or ornate about it; he'd fashioned it as a sort of war mask; threatening and requesting respect from those he didn't know. The few who did get to see past this stubborn, loyal mask would be presented with a kind, understanding warrior who would do anything to safeguard those people.

* * *

When one first meets Hopeless, they will see one mask. Should one see him again, it is more than likely that his mask has changed. It came with his talent; an ever-changing façade. One that confused people and could hardly ever be seen through. As a result, no one was able to look at the man beneath. Not even he himself knew who he was supposed to be.

* * *

Larrikin. Sweet, moronic, screwball Larrikin. Not even he was free from the deception that had latched onto the Dead Men, but at least he wasn't constantly relying on a false face to get by in the way that the others did. The clueless, joking behaviour was accompanied by a frightened child who you wouldn't expect to find in a war zone, and despite this, he wasn't as trusting as one would think. For him to trade his life in exchange for Dexter's was a tragically amazing feat.

* * *

The Dead Men were little more than an exhibit of masks, designed to hide the men beneath. It's the way they've always been; since before the beginning.


	2. Urchin

**Eeeyy! It's been a while, huh. Yeah, I've been in Norway for the past week, and I've only just got to a hotel with internet.**

 **So, I went to the beach. I found some stuff. Then this happened. Enjoy some Larrikin goofing about, and some of that typical 'Erskine is a bit of an idiot' crud that the Skulduggery Pleasant fandom loves so much.**

 **I think it's obvious what I found at the beach.**

* * *

"Anton! Anton, look!"

Anton rolled his eyes as the unmistakeable voice of Larrikin reached his ears. What did the little urchin want now? It had better be something important, because he did not just spend two hours freezing his backside off on an Arctic shoreline, searching for an enemy hideout, just to be distracted by-.

"I found some sea urchins!" Larrikin called, racing up to Anton with something in his hands, a grin on his face and sparks dancing in his amber-flecked eyes. "There's loads of them on those tall rocks back here. I think that's where the gulls go to eat them." He held out his hands to show Anton the hollowed-out remains of a sea urchin. A large hole exposed its rough, chalk-white insides, and the pale green spines of its outer shell stuck out every which way. Thankfully, they were blunt, otherwise Larrikin would be in a lot of pain until he remembered his ability to simply fix the damage within seconds.

"Larrikin, how is this important to the mission?" Anton deadpanned, hardly caring for the dead sea creature.

In blatant nonchalance, Larrikin shrugged. "It's not. I just wanted to show you."

 _Why me?_ Anton silently implored. "Larrikin, don't talk to me again until you've got something important to tell me."

An unfamiliar emotion flickered in Larrikin's eyes, but it was gone before Anton could decipher it. "Okay. Well, I'm going to show the others now. Bye."

With that said, he darted off; hopping across the rocks with youthful ease.

* * *

"Hey, I think we've found it!"

At the sound of Erskine's voice, the Dead Men all rushed over in his direction, to find him and Larrikin stood over a large hole in the ground by the cliffside. The latter was staring about vacantly whilst the Elemental had a look of triumphant pride plastered on his face.

"How did you manage that?" Saracen enquired loudly. "Not even _I_ had the slightest clue where to find it!"

"Larrikin found it," Erskine said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. At the mention of his name, Larrikin focused in on reality again.

"Erskine, I fell in," he quietly corrected, hardly noticing the confused, praising looks he was receiving from the other Dead Men.

However, Erskine merely shrugged. "Same thing. Now let's head back to camp and let Corrival know we've found them. Tomorrow, we'll storm the place."

There was a collective cheer from Dexter, Saracen, Ghastly and Erskine (Skulduggery half-heartedly joined in after getting elbowed in the ribs by Ghastly), and they all marched back to their campsite. Anton trailed behind, keeping an eye out for danger when he noticed Larrikin's presence by his side.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," Larrikin murmured. "I was only looking for more sea urchins."

At this, Anton almost faltered in his stride, but instead looked down at the smaller mage in disbelief.

"You never fail to surprise me," he muttered incredulously.

* * *

 **So... do you like my headcannon personality for Larrikin?**


	3. You're No Monster, I Promise

**I'm not... 100% happy with this one. I lost steam about halfway through.**

 **The only character I own here is Clove Fitzpatrick, and the given name for Skulduggery was my idea. Might do a oneshot about that someday, too. Clove was a guardian for Skulduggery in his childhood years.**

 **I forgot to reply to reviews for the first chapter, so let me get that done now.**

 _ **Nina Sabrina: Aaw! Thanks!**_

 _ **MyNameIsClassified: Cool, thanks! I'm glad I got it right.**_

 ** _Youknowitknowit (aka LionsandTrolls, Mortis Mayhem): I... wow... thanks! I'm really happy that my writing fits into that super rare category, it means I'm doing something right. And yes, that was a good speech that makes up for the absence. Ooh! A cameo? Yayyy!_**

 ** _RapscallionJones (Guest): Thanks! Yeah, I think my incessant paranoia contributes to that XD_**

 **Okay, I'm done. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **You're No Monster, I Promise**

Clove Fitzpatrick was awoken by the ear-splitting sound of a child screaming in the middle of the night. The high-pitched shrieks grated against his ears and sent cold, distressing dread coursing through his chest.

"Veil!" Clove barked urgently, throwing the bedsheets off of himself and racing out of his bedroom, charging down the hallway and into Veil's room. "Veil, what happened?!"

His six-year-old charge was sat bolt upright in his bed, screeching like a rabid Banshee and clutching his scalp in a grip that almost tore out his hair. In the dim light of the room, Clove could see the faint glinting of the hot, salty tears that soaked the poor boy's face.

"Nia, what's wrong?" Clove asked, striding over to the bed and sitting down on the edge and carefully placing a hand on Veil's shoulder. Immediately, the violet-eyed child lunged at him and caught him in a grip of iron around his chest. Jeez, it actually hurt, too.

"I… I d-don't w-w-want to be a… a-a m-monster!" Veil sobbed into Clove's chest.

"Hey, whoa, what are you talking about?" Clove flustered; carefully prizing Veil's arms from around him and running a gentle hand through his charge's messy blond hair in an attempt to calm him down. "What happened?"

"I-I… I had a… a n-night… nightmare," Veil whimpered. "I… I-I was… was hurting everybody, and… a-and I liked it! Y-you were th-th-there, and… and y-you were tell… telling me to s-stop, but… but I d-didn't l-listen!"

Sympathy and horror immediately tugged at Clove's heart, and he gently cradled Veil closer to him.

"No, no, it's just a bad dream," he reassured. "You'd never do something like that. That's not you."

"P-promise y-y-you won't… w-won't let me d-do that? E-ever?" Veil begged.

"I promise. You are no monster. I promise."

* * *

Clove bit back a scream of agony as the shadows pierced his leg. He deserved this. He'd made a promise and he'd broken it. He'd failed.

"It's not your fault," he choked, ignoring the thick, coppery tang of blood in his mouth. "I-I should've kept my promise."

Veiled (such a bad pun, why did he have to do that in the worst of situations?) in shadow as he was, the armoured necromancer betrayed no emotions, but Clove liked to think that there was recognition and sorrow in his eyes.

Another spear of shadows was sent through Clove's hand, making him grimace. Everything hurt. There were corpses everywhere; they'd all been torn apart by shadows; blood soaked the sand crimson, swirled into the choppy ocean waves and stained the froth pink.

"Don't pretend you can't hear me," he reprimanded firmly, desperately trying to ignore just how impassive his attacker was. "Just know that I'm sorry, and… I forgive you for what's happened, because none of it was your fault."

Vile tilted his head to one side.

"You're no monster. I promise," Clove murmured as tears streamed from his face. "Remember that, Veil."

* * *

 **Ffffuuu... I don't like that ending, but I really just had to finish this thing, otherwise I wouldn't be feeling comfortable with writing anything else.**


	4. Colours Within (TW: Self Harm)

**Warning for self-harm in this one. Whilst it's not awfully graphic, I just thought I'd put it out there for the more sensitive readers.**

 **The first half is set during the war, at some point in the 1890s, roundabout. The second half is set just a few months before 'Who Said Life was Easy?'**

 _ **Mya2015:**_ **Glad you're liking it :)**

* * *

 **Colours Within**

The Sanctuary corridors didn't hold much that could be called appealing to the eye, but Erskine found the blank grey walls to be quite relaxing. There was no blood on them, and he'd made a game out of picking out imperfections in the plaster as he walked the winding way to Cryptic's room. He'd just got back from a mission tailing some of Mevolent's men, and knowing the young cryptid, they'd probably been anxiously waiting for their pack to return.

Once at the door to Cryptic's room, he knocked and waited a moment before entering.

"Cryptic? Are you-?"

Erskine's blood ran cold.

Cryptic was sat on the desk, a knife in one hand, the other slowly bleeding from a long, clean gash on the palm. Thick, dark red blood oozed form the cut and dripped into the floor, and a clean line of the liquid stained the edge of the blade.

"Hello, Erskine," Cryptic greeted nonchalantly.

"C-Cryptic," Erskine choked, feeling lightheaded and instinctively gripping the doorframe for support. Stomach-churning, heart-wrenching visions of blood, a razor and a young woman crying her eyes out flashed through his mind, and he felt the urge to vomit and break down into tears rising in his chest. "What… why did you..?"

Muted confusion glinted in Cryptic's eyes and they looked at the blood pouring through their hand. "I wanted to see what it looked like," they said, the barest hint of shame lacing their tone. "Humans bleed red, but I'm not human, so I got curious."

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear away the horror and despair, Erskine walked over to Cryptic and carefully took the knife out of their hand. "That's the only reason?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Okay… Listen… promise you won't do that again. It doesn't matter what your reason is; _don't do it_."

The confusion turned to worry; possibly bordering on fear; but they nodded in consent anyway. "I… okay. I promise."

Thank you.

* * *

"How many of these were your doing?" Clarity asked quietly as they carefully unwrapped the bandages to reveal crisscrossing cuts on Erskine's arms. Vile words such as 'slut', 'traitor' and 'whore' could be seen carved into the skin, and the whole mess of abrasions were raised, red and raw. The sight alone disgusted the cryptid.

"The first few," Erskine whispered shamefully. "Then everyone started doing it for me."

"Oh. Listen… Promise me you won't go back to that?"

"Okay. I-I promise."


End file.
